Desuppression

Seven hours of sleep, and the alarm sounds.

Seven hours of sound sleep. I could keep sleeping.

I press snooze.

Anticipating the snooze alarm.

I do not keep sleeping.

Waiting.

I could sleep like this every night.

Coughing gets in my way. It feels like a month of coughing, my abs punching my lungs to expel air at random times, at inconsistent forces. Attempting to tame a lingering tickle in my throat.

Coughing annoys, distracts. Steals sleep. I feel the tickle right now.

Breathing has been shallow lately in this past month. This morning I exhale deeply, and my ribs tighten. Sometimes the spaces between the ribs cramp. Like I have been running and I get a stitch in my side, but I cannot run through the pain until it subsides.

I am not running. I just lie here. Not sleeping.

But the cramps. Am I out of oxygen? Has it been so long since inflating my lungs through deep, meditative breaths? Have my ribs forgotten how to expand, to compensate for my body’s deficit in breathable air?

What is breathable?

Winter sits on the air, spits in it. Sometimes she brings snow and wind and chilled rains and replaces the air.

Winter is heavy and often merciless and stingy, not only with the air but also the sunlight.

I realize more than one cause facilitates my suffocation.

This early in the morning headlights slide across closed blinds: One thousand one, one thousand two. I try breathing again, and it still hurts.

Darkness penetrates the room. Darkness is space, but it does not expand. It constricts. I cannot breathe the space, but it breathes into me, occupying too much of my lungs. The pressure also surrounds me from the outside, hugging my ribs tight.

Darkness leaves just enough air in my lungs to cough. Cold medicine suppresses the cough, helps me sleep.

Now, if only I could breathe more than a teaspoon at a time without pain.

Yet when my child and my husband cough, all I want to do is absorb their coughs. They need to be cough-free more than I.

Ten minutes later. The snooze alarm sounds. I turn it off and sit up. I could keep sleeping. I could keep overthinking this cough. I slip out of bed and begin getting ready for the day, grateful at least to be breathing, albeit heavy, dirty winter air.

Grateful for the full night’s sleep.

————-

Disclaimer: Obviously I’m rusty with writing, but bear with me. I should be doing this more often and finding my voice. Beneath the coughs. Fingers crossed.

New and Improved 2017

Four days into 2017, and I’m lying in bed, sick with a cold. I wanted to start this year with bright eyes and a bushy tail, but instead I have watery eyes and a droopy tail. My nose is congested, but my mind is clear, and I might as well be doing something productive and reflective.

It’s been a while since I’ve set formal resolutions for the new year. It’s not that I don’t believe in them; it’s just that I see every day as an opportunity to improve. And that can sound like a copout, so here are my thoughts.

Two main categories stick out most for improvement: My interactions with others, and self-care. I want to be friendlier and kinder. I want to be an exceptional listener and strive to understand all sides of a story. A Christmas card I received said that I work with my team in a service-oriented way. Which I wasn’t aware that I did. But I guess it’s a thing that I do that’s become more or less second nature. I’m pleased about this, and I want to keep doing it.

I want to treat myself better, with higher esteem. This may amount to more concrete actions, such as regular hair appointments, massages; decent bedtimes; more honeytime with my husband; more playtime with my amazing daughter. But I also want to read more books and nourish my brain and body as best I can.

Blog/Write/Brainstorm more!

Stay away from Facebook: I’m on a break. I check in once in a while to see what friends are up to. If they’re up to anything mean-spirited, then I check out right away. I’m finding that I don’t really miss it.

Oh, yeah. Exercise. Do more of that. I’ll say at least twice a week.

But I got to get rid of this darn cold first.

Rest more.

30 Months

Dear Z,

Can I have a few minutes?

Something sad happened today. The youngest child of two of my high school friends passed away. They posted a photo of their daughter on Facebook. The little one was in a wheelchair, smiling. Sending her off with a farewell full of both sorrow and joy.

I never met this impressive little girl, but I know my friends. Over the years they shared photos and let us get to know of their daughter’s fighting spirit and cheerful personality. I stared at the one photo today and wept. I commented with condolences, trying to be strong for these friends who have to be so heartbroken right now.

Before today’s photo, my friends posted photos of their other children posing with their sister. There was so much love, and I was hoping and praying so hard for her to pull through. It was not meant to be. I am grateful to have seen these precious last moments of her life, so full of joy and compassion and love. Her family surrounding her, cherishing their time left with her in mortality.

At this moment I’m thinking of bedtime. You know the routine: go potty, change into an overnight diaper, brush teeth, say prayers. Dadda gives you a big kiss goodnight, and I lie with you for a few minutes as you wind down for sleep.

Usually you take my hand and lead me to your toddler bed. I lie down, and you lie beside me. The soft purple and pink beams of your night light roll in a small circle on the ceiling, and Arvo Pärt’s “Spiegel im Spiegel” plays softly in the background.

We talk for a little bit. I ask about your day; I describe mine. Sometimes one of your legs rests on top of me; sometimes we hold hands.

This is my favorite part of the day.

When I try to get up, you grab my hand or hold my head down to make sure I stay with you.

A few more minutes.

A lot of people consider turning 30 years old a major milestone in their lives. This week you turned 30 months.

You’re getting taller.

More observant.

More opinionated.

You tolerate a crowd of children, but most of the time you’d rather play alone. You’ve shown this numerous times at daycare and in the church nursery.

We won’t force you to make friends. You might be a lot like me in this regard. I either reach out, or I don’t. I either reciprocate friendly gestures, or I don’t.

I hope that you become better than I am. For that to happen, I need to be better than I am.

I told you about these friends tonight, as we lay in your little bed, trying to sleep.  I was blinking back tears in the darkness. I told you my friends were sad, that you would have loved their daughter. I squeezed you a little tighter, a little longer, hoping the embrace somehow would reach my friends.

Thirty months.

As we snuggle every night, I think about this, how the time passes. I dread the moment when you’ll no longer want me lying beside you, talking about our day. You’ll hurry me out of your room instead of getting me to stay. I will yearn to find warmth and comfort in the pride I have for our wonderful daughter. Wonderful you.

This abstractness worries me. I equate it with a void of a little body beside me in a little bed. The absence of gazing through the dark at each other, eyes connecting the way only a parent and child’s can connect.

Until that moment, I will lie next to you. I will enjoy the space you occupy, the warmth you emanate, for as long as you let me.

Even if it’s just for a few more minutes.

Love, Mom

Two Zinger Years

Good morning of 2nd birthday!
Good morning of 2nd birthday!

Winter is finally starting to retreat, and the warm weather calls to you every day. When you lead us to the door to go outside, we are excited to help you put your clothes on and let you roam the great outdoors. Two years ago, you were a little too comfy in Mama’s tummy, and we coaxed you so to join us in this wonderful and crazy world.

Two years later you’re taking it all in.

Last week we were watching The Good Dinosaur, and one particularly sad part made me cry. You came up to me leaned your forehead toward me. You do this when we want you to give us kisses. We say, “Can I have kisses?” and make a kissy face. But I didn’t do this last week. I was crying quietly and wiping away my tears because the dinosaur was saying goodbye to the human. When you gave me kisses with your forehead, it was hard not to cry even harder.

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In the past year while watching movies, you often laughed at sad parts, but now you also get sad, and you scream when the little girl Merida screams. You are developing a sensibility about other people. You are developing empathy.

At the same time, you don’t like being around a lot of people. You’re still unsure of other little kids. You recognize them; you acknowledge their existence, but you’d rather not interact with them. You appreciate the safe place of family and familiar friends. I’m grateful you cherish this, and I hope you continue to do so for as long as you can, because there will be moments when the world seems a little scary, and we won’t be able to hold your hand or pick you up and hold you. We want to teach you how to handle those moments well. We’ll still be there, just not in the same ways we are now. This makes me profoundly sad.

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But I am so exquisitely happy that it’s your birthday. It’s hard to believe two years have already passed, because I was just reminiscing about my constant need to pee, which seems was only yesterday. (Which it wasn’t.) You’re saying a few words here and there. You’re getting stronger and faster. More curious. More mischievous.

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You love light switches and doorknobs. And bubbles. Climbing to higher heights. Sprinting between rooms. Squealing during sacrament meeting. Reading your books. Singing your favorite songs; chilling out on the floor for a few moments before another burst of pure energy. Basking in the sunshine. Giving Mama and Dadda hugs and kisses. And mastering potty-training all the while.

We couldn’t be prouder. Or happier.

This crazy world sure needs more people like you.

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You are a joy and a blessing, dear daughter. Wonderful Z.

Happy birthday.

Love, Mom

First Down

For the past few weeks an icy patch has covered part of our driveway. Whenever I’m taking the baby to the car, instead of walking in a straight line, which would cross the slippery area, I would walk around the ice and into some slush, which at least provides a little traction.

One of my recent fears involves falling while holding the baby. I’ve often stared at that icy patch and imagined what to do in case I slipped. I visualized positioning myself landing on my back and holding the baby up in the air. If I fell forward, I would twist my body around. If I slipped back, all I would have to do is brace the baby with my arms as I hit the ground.

Some warmer weather has graced us recently (50 degrees!), and the icy patch has since melted. It has been a relief not having to worry about slipping and falling with the baby. Or the baby biffing it while she walks around. To be fair, we haven’t been outside all that much, so we really haven’t created an opportunity for this type of accident.

Before this warm front were some cold, hazy days, and before that there was the Super Bowl. Our family went down to my inlaws’ to watch the game. A bunch of us gathered around the TV in the basement. Some people sat on the floor. No one sat in the barstools. Reilly and I sat on the couch, and Z was playing next to it.

I stood up to take Z to go potty. Picked her up and started toward the bathroom. One of the dogs was lying between the couch and the nearest barstool. In order to get to the bathroom, I had to step over the dog.

Some part of my foot caught the dog’s back, and I felt myself losing balance. Tilting backward, I grabbed onto the back of the nearest barstool, hoping to keep myself from falling. Barstools spin. The seat of the barstool gave in to the weight I exerted on it, so Z and I spun with it. Instead of falling back toward the couch, Z and I were now falling toward the middle of the room.

All I knew was what I’d visualized on that icy patch in the driveway: hold the baby towards the sky. When my body had slumped with my back and legs on the ground, the baby was at the end of my outstretched arms, unharmed.

Everyone was fine in this little accident, though I can’t speak for my mother-in-law, because MY HEAD LANDED IN HER LAP. Or somewhere on her legs. That was embarrassing. The dog was fine, too.

Halftime (as controversial(?) as it was), commercials, and the game itself did not offer as much excitement as tripping over the dog, landing on my mother-in-law, and keeping the baby safe. Still in play. Touchdown.

 

Last Night During Family Prayer

Every night before bedtime we gather together to pray as a family. It’s the end of Z’s bedtime routine, and it’s something we’ve done since she was a newborn. We do this to help her develop the habit of praying and instilling the value of praying together as a family.

As I’ve mentioned before, our daughter talks, but there’s not much that her father nor I understand yet. She laughs and squeals, and her jabbering has the certain cadence and melody of sentences.

Last night, we formed our little prayer circle. Reilly swaddled Z and held her while either he or I pray. It was my turn. I gave thanks for a few things, and I asked for a few blessings. And then I said, “We’re thankful for [Zinger].”

Immediately after I said this, our daughter said, “[Zinger].” It was unexpected, and it was in her cute little voice. Reilly and I laughed for a few seconds and sporadically throughout the prayer. Z also said some other things–this time we couldn’t understand them, and I can only imagine that she was praying right along with us. As I finished the prayer, her little voice came to mind again and I laughed through the “amen.”

After we set Z down in her crib, Reilly and I reenacted this scene a few more times, imitating our dear daughter. We laughed, again and again. What a precious moment.

This is probably my favorite time of the day.

Adventures in Potty Training 20160116

Yesterday morning, we watched and waited, waited and watched. Two days ago, Z didn’t poop, and she usually poops at least once a day. We were anxious for the next #2 event to happen. We knew it was going to happen soon.

All the pees throughout the day occurred without accident, except there was one time when she held it for too long and barely trickled in her underwear. Outside of this, we’re pretty confident that she’s confident about going pee.

We’ve been diligent with taking her to the toilet to poop for the past week, but we had no real way of knowing if she was catching on to the concept of pooping in the toilet. We’ve explained to her each time the function of the toilet; we’ve let her do the flushing; we’ve let her splash in the sink while washing her hands after every trip to the potty. We hope she’s grasping the process. She’s still not talking with many words her father and I understand, but I like to think she’s discussing potty training in addition to her opinions of the Pixar movies she’s probably already memorized.

This past week we’ve all managed to catch colds, and Z seems to have recovered the fastest. Yesterday she was playing and running around the apartment as usual, while Reilly and I committed to our plan to stay in our pajamas and watch movies and rest. And breathe through our mouths. And blow our noses every five minutes. I didn’t know if we’d be alert enough to run Z to the toilet to finish a #2.

So yesterday I was washing dishes and I walked out of the kitchen and saw Z going into the bathroom. I followed her and she walked toward the stool by the toilet. She looked at me, and I helped her onto the toilet.

After a few seconds of sitting on the toilet, she began to go. You know, go. The longish nuggets plopped into the toilet water, and I hugged Z and praised her while it was all happening. I called out to Reilly that she was doing it, she had pooped in the toilet without our having to take her there. Yay!

We cleaned up and flushed the toilet and washed our hands. We gave her a treat, and she continued being wonderful for the rest of the day. I can’t describe how proud we were of her in that moment, and we hope this continues, well, forever.